


Spare the Room

by roqueofspades



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Attempted Angst, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roqueofspades/pseuds/roqueofspades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr user parallelheart requested angsty Johnlock so I delivered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare the Room

The time was nearing midnight, and snow fell silently to the ground outside. Utter silence on Baker Street was rare but valued. The radiator struggled to heat 221b but Sherlock paid no mind, sitting cross-legged on his armchair and his hands steepled as if in prayer.  
The red armchair across from him--the one that used to be John’s--was host to Billy the Skull, who was a much better listener than John was anyway, though not as stellar a contributor. Sherlock would utter unintelligible thoughts every so often, bring his fist down suddenly on the coffee table beside him and disturb the stagnant tea. Then he would be back to his meditation for another two hours, pondering thoughts at the speed of sound too complicated for any ordinary human to comprehend.  
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not detect movement throughout the room, two more beings entering and then one leaving.  
He opened his eyes quite suddenly, and across from him was not Billy, but John in the chair. He made no reaction, his face set just as cold as it had been for hours, though his heart ached. He’d had these illusions quite often, of John returning, the warmth in his life with him. Sitting in his usual chair. They went away after a minute or so, usually, so Sherlock paid no mind. Unmoving, he closed his eyes again.  
“Sherlock.” There it was, his voice. The voice of a hallucination. John’s real one did not waver. “Sherlock.” Sherlock opened his eyes just barely, seeing through his lashes. The illusion persisted. “Sherlock!”  
He had no choice but to respond, opening his teal eyes and focusing on the image.  
“Sherlock, are you in there?” The illusion moved with a surprising attention to detail. It was the most realistic one he’d ever had. “Sherlock, will you answer me?” Not even in rage did John’s real voice waver like that.  
If Sherlock answered, he feared that Mrs. Hudson would hear, that he would be once again accused of hallucinations and drug tested. Once again he’d come out clean--he always planned ahead, after all--but this time he’d probably be committed or something.  
The illusion grew closer, had become agitated.  
“Sherlock. Answer me.” The next thing Sherlock knew, there was a blunt impact on the side of his face, and he recoiled.  
“Ow!” he cried, unable to immediately react.  
“Alright, so you’re bloody alive,” John grumbled, shaking his hand out like the punch had hurt. Sherlock similarly rubbed the bruise forming in his jaw and gave an indignant glare. “Don’t look at me like that. I thought you were in some sort of trance. Why didn’t you answer me?” Heavy breathing for a few long moments. “Still not answering?”  
“Your ring,” Sherlock muttered quietly.  
“Sorry?” John asked, raising his brow.  
“You’re not wearing your ring.”  
“Right. You’re right. I’m not. You….”  
“I was right.”  
“You were right.”  
“About Mary.”  
“Yeah.” John closed his eyes, jaw tense. “Yeah, you were right, Sherlock.”  
“So she was cheating.”  
“And an ex-assassin.”  
“Right. But we already knew that.” John huffed, patience running thin. “So…. dangerous criminal was fine, but cheating was a deal-breaker?”  
“Ex-criminal.”  
“She shot me in the stomach and I nearly died.”  
“You forgave her.”  
“I lied.” John was struck silent with that, opening his mouth to say something but thinking better of it. “In any case, I assume you’re here because you left her.”  
“I am.”  
“You’re looking for an open door.”  
“If you can spare the room.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Just for the night?” John swallowed thickly, licking his lips. He was speaking to Sherlock’s back now--Sherlock was gazing out the window, picking up his violin and tuning it.  
“The other bedroom no longer belongs to me,” Sherlock sighed as he began to play. It was a soft whine that at first which was at a jarring frequency but quickly calmed to be a much more soothing tone, almost a haunting lament.  
“Then the sofa.”  
“What are you going to do afterward?”  
“I don’t know,” John admitted, growing exasperated. “I’ll have to look for a new flatmate, since you’re not….”  
“You came here to ask me if I’d accept you as a flatmate.”  
“Yes, but you…. moved on, it seems.”  
“No,” Sherlock replied, the music turning harsh and then suddenly stopping. “You chose her but that doesn’t mean I’ve moved on.” John was speechless for a moment.  
“I--I don’t…. what do you…. mean?”  
“I mean that you chose her,” Sherlock repeated, setting his violin aside and dropping his bow. “But you’re still…. you still have a spot here.”  
“Clearly I do not.” Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. There was a long silence as Sherlock continued to stare out the window, where snow began to cake onto every surface it touched.  
“Why did you choose her?” Sherlock finally asked in a voice that was not his.  
“Because you were dead,” John breathed, looking away in shame. “You were dead and you were never coming back. And then you bloody came back and… I was already engaged to her.” He swallowed and carried on in a broken voice. “And I still loved her.”  
“But?”  
“But she wasn’t you.” He sat down again from his pacing though he appeared tenser than ever. “And it seemed wrong to break it off and just go chasing you. Just because… just because you were alive.” He buried his face in his hands.  
“And you assumed I wouldn’t want you,” Sherlock replied quietly.  
“Of course I assumed,” John replied, his voice cracking. The silence afterward was an implied was I right? on John’s part, a plea that Sherlock never answered. After a period of utter stillness, Sherlock quickly turned on his heel and strode past John, and halted at the end of the room.  
“Well?” he asked impatiently, holding the doorframe and turning his head.  
“Well what?”  
“Aren’t you coming? There’s no need to sleep on the couch.”


End file.
